Faramir's Awakening
by Araelia Lambert
Summary: What is it that goes through the mind of Faramir as he awakens from his fever to see his father in blazes?


Title: Faramir's Awakening  
  
Author: Araelia Lambert Plot: Faramir's point of view as he wakes to see Denethor in flames. Disclaimer: all characters, settings, plot... everything but the exact words (and even some of those) belong to Tolkien. I'd like to thank Thalia Weaver for giving me this idea with her story of Boromir's death. Check it out, if you get the chance; it's superb.  
  
~¤*In the Darkness*¤~  
  
A smell is upon the air, one that it has been bred into men to fear. It is an odor of oil, a pungent aroma that sticks into your nostrils. It is infused with a faint undertone of seasoned wood, dry wood. Though my sight is blackened, I can vaguely hear a clacking sound, much as rocks make when hit softly against each other.  
  
No. These are no rocks. The fresh smell, it is wood fresh from the stores, and the scent of sweat is threaded in among it. The oil is the dominant one that reaches my olifactory glands, however, sickeningly strong and nauseating in its very being.  
  
Warm hands are beneath me, and I am being moved from this palet which has been my resting place for uncounted days. My muscles seem to have turned to bone, for all that I can move them. I am stiff, and yet my limbs are drawn downwards, doing for gravity what they would not accomplish for me. My arms and legs slump, lifeless as I am lowered onto a rough surface. It pricks my back, I know that it aches, and yet I cannot feel anything but the subtle pressure. At this point, it seems physical pain is beyond me.  
  
Cold! Ah, that blessed, frigid touch of liquid against my burning flesh. I can feel my side with the arms that are beside them, my skin is hot to the touch. I cannot move my arms to check if this is accurate, or yet another figment of a fevered mind. This cool water-- no, it is too thick to be water.  
  
Suddenly the thought registers: the thick scent of fuel and the feeling of cold liquid. It must be the oil that had first entered my thoughts, that pungent odor that woke me from the slumber. A dull ache throbs in my chest, then a sharp pain, the first that I can remember in this haze, as the oil comes in contact with something... something. With this fire lit within my chest, that burning anguish that feels as though it is stripping the nerves from the flesh, I can feel a foreign object deep within my breast.  
  
My memories return; the first of them being the most recent occurances before my departure from the world of the waking. A battle, a battle I can see in my mind's eye. The orcs, and those who are larger. These must be the Uruk Hai. Were I not fighting for my very life, I would have been in awe of these creatures. Looking back, I am still impressed with the number of men that they managed to fell. Outnumbered we were, and yet their standing ranks at the end were not in proportion to ours. Indeed, none of my people were able to move, myself included. I remember the savouring expression that the beast's eyes held as he nocked the final arrow. My heart seemed to stop within my chest as he raised his warped bow. Time paused, as it is wont to do in such times, those moments when you grasp with every nuance of strength you possess to hold onto your sentience.  
  
And then it struck. The agony that I felt is still fresh; indeed, I can feel a now-familiar trickle of blood from this wound as my pulse is stimulated.  
  
A crashing sound I can hear, and yells that bring ringing to my precarious state of consciousness. Once more I make an attempt to open my eyes, but they do not even flutter. I will wait for these foul visionaries to be lulled into a moment of quiet, and then I shall strike. The ruccus grows louder, I can hear the djinn that is echoing in the recesses of my mind. A voice... there is a voice I can identify in this me-lee. They are the tones of my father! Oh blessed be that Steward, he has come to rescue me, I am sure. My father will save me from what I cannot save myself from. And yet, there is a moment of doubt. In his own words, he wished Boromir in my place. Perhaps he has come to assits them in my discomfort, in a deluded hope that it will bring back his other son. Any other day, I would dismiss this as stupidity on my own part, but this pain was all too real.  
  
Now I can feel a blaze that is not contained within my body. A fire! Oh dear Valar, I am going to be consumed! Already my skin writhes, though I cannot move. I can feel myself being held tight in the flame's embrace. I can sense the smoke clogging my breath, and I struggle to keep it within me. I will not loose this battle with the elements.. and yet I find myself giving in, slowly.  
  
An impact upon my body, a short fall! I hit the ground with a thud, my body now aching more than ever before. Luckily I landed face-up, so as not to disturb the wound on my breast. I hear a cry, an indistinguishable voice; could it be my father? Yes, the tones sound akin to his, but I cannot decipher the words in my haze.  
  
Another cracking sound, and then an agonized scream. Surely this is the sound of the one bringing the pain, being given his justice at last. It seems that I have now regained enough strength to open those fickle eyes that perch on my face. The lids flicker a bit, fighting an internal battle over whether or not to let my sight behold this, and finally I am free of the cage of darkness.  
  
The first sight I see is a man amongst the flames, his clothes igniting as he gives me a look of incredulity that was surpassed by none that I have ever seen. His lips move, and I can make out one word upon them:  
  
"Faramir?"  
  
Oh cruel life! How dare the Valar give me back my life just so that I may watch my father's expire?! For this was who is among the blazing inferno: Denethor, the Steward of Gondor, and my father. I know now from the look on his face, this wil be the last word that dropped from my father's lips.  
  
His visage contorts into a facade of pure agony, and a blood-curdling scream emits from his mouth. Both arms flail out in an attempt to purge this acidic element from his body, but the pernicious flame continues on, devouring him in body and mind.  
  
It seems that he has lost control at the end, or lost what little semblance he had left of it. As the beatings of his arms did naught but feed the ravenous blazes, he is again letting out that cry of pain. Bolting for the door, he scatters the guards and dashes through the doorway, enveloped by flame. Tears would well up behind my eyes if I had any left to weep. My tears for my father are gone, though more may be wept in private at a later date. I have not the strength to cry at the present. A whisper from the other person in the room, the one who sealed my father to this fate:  
  
"And so passes Denethor, son of Ecthelion." 


End file.
